


Palm Pilot I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: One possible upshot of S.R. 819...with smut





	Palm Pilot I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Palm Pilot by The Spike

"Palm Pilot"   
by The Spike  
1/99  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Theirs. Me just playing. No hurt. See?  
Rating: NC-17 for smut on the fluff.  
Spoilers: S.R. 819  
Archive: yes, please  
Summary: I've been thinking of the possible upshot of the events of S.R. 819. And Te wanted smut.  
Thanks & Acknowledgments: To Te, for getting me to write the first draft of this real-time, on-line, and for being so, um, encouraging --wooo-hooo baby! Thanks to Nonie Rider and Ladonna King for incredibly helpful beta.   
Feedback: yes, please. Public or private to 

* * *

"Palm Pilot"  
by The Spike  
1/99

Cold Wednesday night. Late. Assistant Director Walter Skinner arrives home to find Alex Krycek sitting on his sofa, Palm Pilot in hand. Walter sees him there, but ignores him. He hangs up his coat, puts his briefcase away, goes and pours himself a drink.

Scotch. Neat. It's been a very long day. And even though it was a while ago, he keeps seeing the look on Mulder's face when he told him the case was closed, and it still makes him feel like shit. At the edge of his vision, he can feel the shift and slide of Krycek's self-control; anger radiating out from the man on the sofa like heat. How long 'til the mouthy son of a bitch can't stand the silence anymore? Not long, he thinks. And presto:

"I'm not going to go away," Krycek says.

Skinner just looks at him. Krycek holds up the Palm Pilot. Skinner's jaw tightens and he holds the stare. And then he has to give it up.

And Alex just *swells* with pleasure. Can't hold back his grin.

"Walter Skinner is my bitch," he says, musing, like he just has to have the taste of it on his tongue. And it's just over the top enough that Walter remembers who he's dealing with. He shakes his head, ruefully.

"Any asshole with a big enough gun can find himself on top," he says. "It doesn't mean he is."

Alex's jaw sets, Skinner-like. Walter is amazed to see how much this means to Krycek. He decides to push it a little. Maybe it's his way out. Maybe just a chance to play.

"Well, go on, then," he says. "Flip your switch. Lay me out."

Alex glares at him. His thumb hovers over the Palm Pilot, and Walter can see he's torn. Kind of a thrill in that. Just a little heat between the legs. Maybe there is something to this.

"Power of life and death, Alex. You can make me hurt," he says. "But I think you need more than that."

"So I should drop my 'gun', take you on, hand to hand?" he says. "How stupid do you think I am?" 

Walter is looking at him, though. There's a sheen of sweat on Alex's face. He's holding his mouth, his whole body, rigid. Walter wonders if he's hard.

"Pretty stupid," he says. "Look, if you came here to give me an order, give it to me and get out. If you came for something else..."

Alex looks up sharply.

"...you can't get it that way.

"*Did* you come to give me an order?" Walter asks. Alex, hesitates, shakes his head, no. "Then put your fucking Gameboy down and come here."

Alex's thumb hovers again. Shaking. And he closes the case. Puts the Palm Pilot down on the sofa. Gets up.

Shit, Walter thinks. The boy is looking good tonight. All in black. Black mock turtle neck. Black boots. Black jeans. Tight across the thickening bulge at his crotch.

Walter feels the rush. He thinks: the prick *could* have me. Too bad he doesn't know it.

Or maybe that's a good thing.

And he spreads his hands in invitation, and Alex goes for it. Comes in low and dirty for a head butt to the ribs and they go over. Walter grabs him up in a headlock. Alex lands good, bruising body blows to the ribs, but Walter gets him down on the carpet. Bears down on him with sheer weight and gets a submission hold.

"That's not the way," he says. Panting. Alex struggles at the sound of his voice. He rolls Alex over on his back, rolls on top of him. Length to length and he can feel the burning heat where their sheathed cocks meet. Alex looks around, desperately. Writhes.

Walter lowers his head, runs his nose around Alex's ear. Takes the lobe between his teeth. Bites hard, then sucks gently.

"Fuck!" Alex hisses. Walter chuckles into his neck.

"Come on," he says. "Top me." But he doesn't let up an ounce of pressure. He runs a hand down Krycek's ribs. Pulls the thin, cotton shirt free of Krycek's jeans. Slips his hand up, to slide it over the hot, sweat-slick flesh. Finds a nipple. Tweaks it hard. Alex's head slams back against the floor and he tries to buck.

Walter leans in and bites the tender throat.

"Don't..." but he doesn't stop. Leaves a mark. Nice ring of teeth.

"That's a point against you, boy," he says. "Want to try again?"

And Alex does. He pries one hand free, grabs the back of Walter's head, pulls his mouth down for a brutal, biting kiss.

Walter doesn't buck. He grinds. And Alex groans.

"Better," Walter says. "Now tell me that you want me to suck your cock."

"Wha--?"

"You're making me your bitch," he says. "Remember?"

Alex just stares up at him, hard. Like he's not sure he believes this. Like he *doesn't* believe this, but it's too good to pass up.

He tries a grin.

"Okay, *bitch*," he says. "Suck my cock."

Walter rolls his eyes. But he dives in anyway, takes another kiss that leaves Alex breathless. Starts to work his way down. Kissing, biting -- real nips that make Alex jump before he writhes.

"Tell me to pay attention to your nipples."

"Yeah...yeah," Alex says. "Suck my nipples."

"You sound like you're begging," Walter says.

"Jesus," Alex says. "Suck my goddamn nipples. Now!"

Almost. Not quite, but fuck -- the boy is hot enough to melt lead and so he complies. Slides up under the cotton shirt. Takes a nipple in his teeth.

Just holds it there, until Alex says:

"Do it." And then he sucks it into his mouth. Suckles. He wants to leave another mark.

"Fuck, do it," Alex says. again. "The other one."

"Yes...sir," Walter says, softly. And moves over to the other nipple.

Tugs at it with his teeth. Rolls it. Rasps the trapped bud with his tongue.

Alex is holding Walter's head with both hands, running his thumbs over the smooth skin above his ears.

"Christ, Walter -- do it. Take me in your mouth. Now."

And it's Walter's turn to gasp a little, because that was *convincing*. 

He gives one last pull on the nipple and moves down between Alex's thighs. Stops.

"How do you want me?" he asks. Alex looks up, a little stunned.

"Just...just like that," he says. "On your knees like that."

"Dressed or undressed?"

"Son of bitch," Alex growls. "Stop...stop baiting me and get my--" 

Punctuating his words with a pointed writhe...

"--cock in your mouth."

"Yes, sir," Walter says again. Less of a jibe this time. Letting himself feel it. He tears open the button fly. Yanks the jeans down Krycek's hips, releasing the dusky pink and swollen flesh.

Walter puts his lips to the glistening, rosy head. Looks up.

Alex is glaring down at him, mouth curled into a snarl, eyes dark and glassy. "Suck. It."

Yeah.

And Walter slides his mouth down around the slippery, salty head.

"Take it all."

Oh yeah -- the boy has got it now.

So Walter does. Impales himself, slow and relentless. Swallowing to lodge the head in his throat, working the muscles around it, making suction. He tongues long, flat strokes along the shaft. Krycek is making strangled sounds, trying to buck against Walter's weight. So good. And Walter is falling into pleasure, letting go.,,

He pulls off, sucking hard.

"Like this?" he asks, through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, like...like that."

"You want more?"

"More. Yeah."

The helpless need in Krycek's voice goes through him. He could take it all back, here and now. Break the boy, make him beg. But, fuck, so close to something else. Something... more. 

And fuck, what difference does it make? That gorgeous cock in front of his face doesn't care one way or another. And that's enough. He lowers his mouth to take Alex in again. Sucks and suckles. Fucks his own face up and down. Alex is making harsh, breathless sounds his throat now. Hips rolling under Walter's mouth.

Give it up, baby, he thinks, liking the swing and sway of power in his mouth. But sudden, surprising hands grasp his head, hold it still.

"Listen to me, Walter," Alex growls, low and harsh. Different than before. Something about his voice sends a real, cold thrill to Walter's gut and he stops, listens: 

"I want you to jerk yourself off." Walter tries to lift his head, but Alex holds him still. The cock down his throat is throbbing and hard.

"I want to jerk -- I want you to jerk yourself off, with my cock in your mouth. Just like this. Do it, Walter."

Like a shot of molten steel to the balls, and Walter *whimpers* --Christ, that helpless sound -- around that cock and finds himself scrabbling to yank his fly open. Balanced on his knees and anchored by the cock -- Alex Krycek's cock -- solid and throbbing in his throat.

He pulls himself out -- fingers cool on his fever-hot flesh. Already slick and wet. And he takes himself in his fisted grasp. Groans.

"Getting good to you, Walter?"

Groans again and strokes. Tries to move his head up along the shaft in his mouth, but Alex's grip is iron. 

"Don't fucking *move*, Walter. Just your hands. Just like that."

And Walter does. Just his hands. Long practiced strokes and the heat spirals up fast. Heat pulling in from his limbs, making every inch of flesh aware. Feeling himself, slick flesh encased in shirt and tie; wool pants softly abrading his ass: shoes and socks like lead weights on his feet. Good, growling ache in his joints from being crouched over his own hard dick. Alex Krycek's cock down his throat. And Alex talking to him. Stroking the naked flesh of his head and murmuring.

"That's right, Walter. You do what I say. You do what I tell you now. Just like that. Stroke it hard. No, don't move."

The rasp of his own throaty, abandoned noises -- no choices to be made, nothing to be weighed, just the pursuit of his own pleasure. At Alex Krycek's command.

His hips are rocking now. He's getting close. And Alex has started to rock too, thrust up into his throat. Reflexively, he pushes down onto the pressure. 

Feels a sharp smack on the top of his head.

"I told you not to move, Walter. I think there might...there might be consequences for that..."

Consequences. The word fucks his head like a cold steel blade.

And that's all he needs. Thrusting hard into his own hands, and he can feel the pressure gathering in his balls; feels it expanding in his throat. Slow, hard pulse between his palms, and then he's coming, hot and thick, and his incoherent scream is muffled around the solid obstruction in his throat.

And even as he screams, Alex is thrusting hard into the sound. Still holding Walter's head, riding his mouth until his thrusts turn jerky and Alex makes a breathless noise and shoots. So hot in Walter's mouth. The taste of him like a drug. He swallows, feels the warm drip of it overflowing his chin. Laps after it.

Christ.

Alex lets him go and he rolls over. They lie there in silence for while. Heartbeats slow to something like normal.

"How'd I do?" Alex asks. Walter winces, but he feels all warm inside.

"E for effort." he growls. 

"How about C for you came all over yourself, big boy."

"Yeah, I'll give you that." 

Krycek sits up, looks down at Walter still sprawled out on the rug. His eyes are bright, glistening green with excitement.

"You'll give me everything, eventually," he says. "I'm gonna like that."

"Maybe," Walter concedes. He reaches up, strokes his palm softly along Krycek's jaw. Krycek's eyes narrow minutely with pleasure and he leans into the touch...

And Walter grabs him by the throat -- fingers digging into tender, marked flesh and Alex's gasp cut off by lack of air. Walter levers himself up in one smooth move to take Krycek's mouth in a brutal kiss. The taste of copper blossoms and he holds it just long enough to feel the man respond, feel the give, then shoves him roughly back.

The split second of naked need in Krycek's face -- thin thread of blood along his lip -- brings the tilting scales back in line. And Walter grins.

"But I think you like taking what I give you, even more," he says, and then adds softly: "Bitch." And he stretches back out on the floor and watches, with grim amusement and satisfaction, the way Alex doesn't look at him as he gets hurriedly to his feet, tucks his shirt back into his pants and scoops up the Palm Pilot from the sofa.

And even after Alex slams wordlessly out the door, he still lies there, feeling the echo of satisfaction pulsing in his veins. 

He has no idea of who has won this round, or when the next round will take place. He only knows that it isn't over yet and that, for once, he's found someone who knows how to play the game.

Or who, at very least, seems more than willing to learn.

The. End.

 

* * *

 

"Palm Pilot II: Upgrade" (1/1)  
by Spike  
3/99  
Disclaimers: not mine, no evil intent  
Rating: NC-17, for oh so many wrong bad wickednesses and slippery knobfondles in the joy department.  
Spoilers: S.R. 819  
Summary: Round two.  
Thanks: Alicia, for superquick beta and patience: to Nonie, for being in my aether.  
Archive: yes, tell me when and where  
Feedback: Please. Public or private, to   
URLs: Palm Pilot I and my other fics can be found at: http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm

* * *

"Palm Pilot II: Upgrade"  
by Spike

Son of a bitch and son of a bitch and son of a bitch...

And Alex can't get the taste of Skinner's hot iron kiss off his mouth no matter what he does. No matter how many times he hides in the shadows and watches Skinner buckle as he slides his finger up and down the screen.

Still something, to see that muscled frame quail and shudder at his lightest touch, to see Skinner's head come up from whatever it has hit -- bar or desk or concrete floor -- his eyes black with rage, nostrils flared, blindly seeking his tormentor like a wounded bull. Yeah, let A.D. Walter Skinner call the game whatever the fuck he wants, there's no question of whose hand holds the only gun that matters.

And even so, even though he knows that what he has is power, whatever spurt of satisfaction it gives never lasts longer than it takes for him to get hard again, to remember Skinner's hot breath on his face, the pinning weight of him and the agonizing temptation to *yield*. Give over -- go belly up and spread his legs and beg for Walter Skinner's cock in his ass.

And there it is -- the taste of iron in his mouth and Alex snaps the lid of the palmtop closed, slams it into the glove compartment, starts up the car. 

Son. Of. A. Bitch. 

//You wanna know this?// he thinks viciously at remembered-Skinner playing at sub between his thighs. //You want to know what it feels like to really give it up like that? I sure as fuck hope so, *Walter*, because you are about to find the fuck out.//

***

Walter Skinner comes up through layers of chittering blackness and knows that he's been dead again. Or close.

He's alive now, though. Definitely alive. Naked, face down on a bed --his own bed -- hands cuffed together and over his head to the headboard. And...

...oh...

...ohhhh...

...fucked. He is being fucked. Long and slow and steady. Smooth glide in and out, no pain and, Christ, it's been a long time. Feels good though. So good. He groans. Is answered by a low chuckle. 

"Hello, Walter," says Alex Krycek from behind his ear. The voice is graveled and a little tight. The words are punctuated with a rolling thrust that forces a cry from deep in Skinner's throat. Oh God, so close -- his own erection being burnished against the sheets by the driving force of Krycek's hips. Krycek's hands-

//hands?//

\--grasping his ass, thumbs spreading his cheeks to make every stroke count. And he is weak to it, helpless to it. Pleasure running like a cold burn under his skin, gathering in his joints, behind his eyes. 

He's going to come. Even with Krycek holding to his slow and steady rhythm, the spiral of tension is accelerating inward. Downward. Going to come. 

*No!* He won't -- he will not go that way. Not like this. And he clamps down hard enough to make the next stroke knife-edge agony. He grunts through clenched teeth. Not a sex sound. Sheer force of will, of pleasure denied and still he hovers on the edge.

Krycek gasps at the sudden compression, hangs on the out-stroke and catches himself on the selfsame edge. His grip on Skinner's ass flexes and tightens. He presses his cock in hard, but doesn't thrust again. Doesn't withdraw. 

They balance like that, both trembling, for a long, long moment and the silent intensity of stillness brings Skinner's focus in to the place where their bodies join. His ass feels so hot -- stretched and tight. Krycek's cock feels huge inside him. It throbs, or he is throbbing around it. Hard to tell because the doubled pulses echo through his flesh, sending out trickles of pleasure that make him want to move. He bites his lip to pain, wills his hips to stillness but his flesh still twitches as the nerve-ends fire.

"What's the matter, Walter?" Krycek growls through gritted teeth. "Not hard enough? Not fast enough? You want me to hurt you more...?"

Skinner denies the rush those words send down his cock, manages a rough sound that barely passes for contempt.

"Coward," he snarls. To his surprise, Krycek laughs -- a high-strung sound, a little ragged, but real enough.

"That's all right, baby," Krycek answers low and mock-sultry. His fingertips trace fire across the cheeks of Skinner's ass, sending shivers up and down his spine. "You take all the time you need."

Time. Jesus. Time is going to kill him here, lay him open like a prayer book on a plea for mercy. And sure enough, after a time -- long time, short time -- Krycek begins to rock. Slow, small. A gentle, tidal motion without thrust or friction. It wreaks its subtle erosion on Skinner's control -- no rush, no sizzle, just a deep deep ache in some unguarded portion of his center that sends wave after slow seismic wave of sensation along every nerve.

No way to deny it now, he's going to come, willing or no...come for Alex Krycek, moaning like the bitch he's pretending not to be. 

Then he hears it -- Krycek's ragged breathing, each gasp catching on a low note deep in his chest. Skinner feels a feral smile curve his lips back from his gritted teeth. He's got the game now -- not a tussle, but a race and they are neck and neck, cock and ass, in and out and...

oh...

ohhhh...

He feels Krycek's cock jump and thicken inside him -- too too sweet to bear but just as his own wave crashes on the shore the darkness starts to close around him.

//No...!// 

He howls it in his head, bucking hard against the onrushing dark. But it's not enough and even as the fire ignites, it dies; pain and pleasure slip away and everything fades to black.

***

And back to light. Skinner is lying on his back, not bound, not spitted on a cock. But not alone. Krycek is lying beside him, fully dressed --gray sweater over worn black jeans, black boots. He's not asleep, his hands are folded on his chest. Legs crossed at the ankle. Staring at Skinner's ceiling. Waiting.

"Get what you wanted?" Skinner growls flatly, wondering how he feels. His voice is hoarse, throat a little raw. Krycek turns his head on the pillow, looks at him, face blank and bland as Mulder's.

"I don't know," Krycek says. "Maybe. Did you?"

Skinner snorts. Not quite a laugh.

"Might have if some asshole hadn't pulled the plug."

Krycek looks away with a tiny wince. The closest he's going to get to 'sorry', apparently. 

"I don't like to lose." 

Skinner shakes his head, amused. He wonders why he isn't angry. But then again, he knows.

"You're one fucked-up little boy, aren't you?" he says. The way Krycek's jaw muscles clench under the skin pleases him. As does the fact that Krycek doesn't roll away. Doesn't rise. 

"You going to spank me, Daddy?" Krycek asks. Back to staring up at the ceiling. His voice is flat, uninterested, and yet...and yet... Skinner feels his sleepy cock twitch. He reaches down to stroke himself lazily under the sheets, expecting to find cold, congealing come. To his surprise, he's clean. Hard to imagine Krycek dabbing at him with a washcloth. No. He would have used his mouth for this. 

Oh, lord...

But was it worship? Or did he *feed*...? Skinner presses his lips together to stifle a groan, feels his erection fill his hand.

"Suck me off," he says. He feels the body next to him stiffen but doesn't wait for a response. Instead, moving on instinct, he rolls over, grabs Krycek's too-short hair and slams his head back against the pillow. Just force, brute force. He levers himself up on his knees, straddles Krycek's chest -- soft cotton sweater, body heated, grazing his ass. His cock is in his fist, hard and slick and dark. He presses it against Krycek's lips.

Those lips, soft, pale, open slightly at the touch. Reluctantly, maybe. Krycek's eyes are closed. Face expressionless. He hasn't struggled at all. 

So *does* he want it? Doesn't he? Skinner has the sudden anxious urge to check Krycek's groin, ensure that he is hard. He holds there for a moment, hand trembling a little, crystal cock-tear glittering with the movement. He looks down at Krycek's fallen angel beauty, the shine of moisture at the outer corners of his eyes. 

//You need it,// he thinks. //You need it and it's who you are, but sometimes...

//...should have been my quest too...

//Sometimes...

//Been there, boy. Go there every *fucking* day.

//Sometimes you just want something else.//

And he looks down at the weapon in his hand, his tool and wills it to *be* something else. An offering. A gift. 

And:

"Please..." he whispers, hears the tremble in his voice. Feels the pulse the sound evokes. "Please...?"

Krycek's eyes flutter open on a frown. On disbelief. Skinner can only shake his head, hold himself open for this. Open, naked. Needing.

Long, long moment watching the dance of shadows across those almond eyes: doubt to hope to slyness to...something hard and sure. Not boyish at all. Hands come up to cup him from behind, pull him forward. Lips open to reveal a pink and pretty tongue. 

Those eyes. That gaze is locked on his. No guarantees here. Nothing like trust. Just two strangers meeting again on a familiar razor's edge. 

The first cut of the sharp, wet tongue makes Skinner gasp. The next and he is writhing, slain. Krycek's mouth is soft and sure, a warm wet ring around his cock, he pulls Skinner in deep -- taking what he wants. What he needs.

And Skinner bucks and writhes, cut loose like a flag in a windstorm. So good. So sweet. To be taken like this. And only by this man, his enemy. His prey.

Oh God. So close already that his hips are wild, his body anchored only in Krycek's mouth, trapped between his hands. And when semi-slick fingers find their way inside him, pierce him like an arrow, he is gone gone gone. 

This time not down into darkness but up, into merciless light.

***

Back out in the world it's cold. Cold inside his clothes. Cold in the car but Alex doesn't turn the key right away. Instead he finds himself staring at the closed hatch of the glove compartment. On impulse, he slides his fingertips over the brittle vinyl, toggles the hasp. The hatch falls open. The small, rectangular case rests heavy inside his jacket.

He can take it out right now and play its deadly game. 

He can drive to Chesapeake Bay and toss the fucking thing in and never play anything ever again.

He can, if he wants, just sit here for the next 400 years, remembering Skinner's broken cries of need, Skinner's wild, rocking weight on his chest and the taste...the taste...

He shudders. It had been so...

Christ, and he *still* hasn't gotten the taste of Walter Skinner out of his mouth. He almost laughs at that. Enough to break the strange spell that keeps threatening to bind him here.

Four hundred years. Skinner's cock. 

//Maybe in the next life, huh?//

For now he still has places to do, things to kill, people to be. And if Skinner gave him something that felt like an oiled key fitting into a rusty lock, well, it doesn't have to mean any fucking thing at all. Not in the pitiless glare of what waits, what needs to be done. Certainly not in the light of what he will make of the man in due time. 

Nothing. 

Even if his pretty new left hand is shaking as he tosses the palmtop in, closes the glove compartment and starts up the car.

Not even that.

=end=


End file.
